I love our new house, and am so thankful for it, but I do, as I suspected I would, miss a lot from our old house—our built-in bookcases, our big yard, our neighbors (Sophie especially misses Griffin, and Tucker, Cooper), and, of course, Pat and Harold.
I was (and am) so proud of all the work we did, including turning this:
We painted most every room, and I loved the colors. We added French doors, replaced light fixtures, fixed the gutters, put in a new furnace and air conditioner, completely re-landscaped. Here, in our new house, we have much painting (and wallpaper removal) still to do.
Andy built a beautiful fence at our old house (which you can sort of see here). I miss that fence. And long for one here.
We planted a garden our first summer at the old house. We had no idea one tomato plant could yield so many tomatoes, and I was so eager for fresh-from-the-garden tomatoes that I think we planted 15 tomato plants. As such, we ate tomatoes with every meal for weeks, and gave so many away.
We celebrated birthdays, holidays (and clearly underestimated the height of our ceilings when cutting down the tree shown above), new jobs, promotions, pregnancies and life for five-and-a-half years in that house.
But the projects, the painting, the remodeling, the building and the fixing is ongoing, no matter where we are (and especially where we are, as we seem to love 100-year-old, stone foundation homes). The memories, though, are unchanging. I’ll always have them. There. Here. Anywhere. And for that, I’m thankful for my brain. And pictures. And journals. And blogs.
I know renters often don’t treat houses as nicely as they would something they own (I, certainly, didn’t spend hundreds of dollars on landscaping the many of years I spent renting). But I hope they know how much that house meant to us—still means to me. I hope Sophie remembers it. I hope Owen and James someday look at pictures of it.
I often thought of the people who lived in our old house—in the 1920s, 1950s, 1980s. I hope we made our mark on the house and served it well. And I hope it’s home to many more happy memories in the years to come.
“One’s home is like a delicious piece of pie you order in a restaurant on a country road one cozy evening—the best piece of pie you have ever eaten in your life—and can never find again. After you leave home, you may find yourself feeling homesick, even if you have a new home that has nicer wallpaper and a more efficient dishwasher than the home in which you grew up.” —Lemony Snicket